


damage control

by sky_blue_hightops



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Restraints, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23999746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_blue_hightops/pseuds/sky_blue_hightops
Summary: BTHB: Painful wound cleaning, kind restraints.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 9
Kudos: 178





	damage control

“Set him down there-”

“We’ve got an RK800 in with a severe instability to the right side-”

“Two bags, yeah, quick-”

“Okay. Okay, kiddo, I gotcha. Just- yeah- there we go-”

Connor’s head lolled against Hank’s shoulder, eyes half closed and vision filled with static. A burning, overwhelming pain radiated from his side, stretching from under his arm down to his hip. He groaned when his head hit metal, unaware of much else besides Hank’s solid presence leaving him, and reached out a hand weakly. 

“No, you’re okay, I’m right here.” There was a hand on his face and then on his forehead and he pressed into the touch, chased it as far as he could go until the pain was too much and his head landed back on the table with an audible sound. He could feel poking and prodding at the source of the pain and he curled away, tears welling up involuntarily. The hand on his forehead smoothed through his hair and Connor did his best to focus on the repetitive motion.

“We’re going to have to do our best to patch the broken lines and sew it up; it looks well-approximated-” Connor winced away from the examination, again, but a hand on his shoulder steadied him. Glaring warnings popped up all around the frames of his vision and he couldn’t focus enough to dispel them, could only squint through the red designs and the bright overhead lights as undistinguishable ( **recognition_Program** :  **ERROR_UNKNOWN** ) faces loomed over him. “It’s too much for his repair program to handle on its own, Lieutenant. It would be appreciated if you can remain here to keep him calm through the process, there’s nothing to give him-”

The hand on his shoulder tightened and it sent a wave of warmth through his chest, something to cling to in the wake of the data his sensors were screaming at him. “Of course I’m staying, where do you need me...”

The voices faded out of his focus. He struggled to draw in a breath (to ease his stress levels, to lower his temperature) but it only aggravated the gash curling around his torso. He gasped out the strangled breath, hands gripping the edge of the table under him, and it took all his processing power to not slip directly into stasis. “Connor, calm down, there we go. Focus on me, okay? Can you see me?”

His perspective skittered around before latching onto Hank’s eyes, almost directly above his, and he nodded jerkily. “Hh. Hank. Hng-”

“Hole in one, kid. Keep focusin’ on me, got it?” He nodded again, disoriented. Things had moved too quickly to process from the second that knife had ripped through his side and he blinked as the lights over him flashed and moved. The table under him was moving, they were moving, but Hank still had his hand on Connor’s shoulder and the lights were just too bright and the android let his eyes close.

The next time he opened them, the world was much dimmer. The hand on his shoulder had strayed to hold the back of his neck, a comfort much greater than the chill of the table under him. He barely registered the sound of fabric tearing before air hit more of the wound directly and the edges of his shirt were being peeled from it and he cried out, flinching. The hand tightened its hold on the base of his head and Hank’s voice over him was low and constant. “C’mon, son. You have to stay still. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Sir, we have to-” 

“Okay, yeah, here-”

“Get his wrist-”

“Keep him responsive-”

The loss of support to his neck was sudden and alarming. Connor couldn’t help a whimper, stress levels rising, but then there were hands gripping his wrists and his ankles and he fought them as much as he could. Something was drawn tight, restricting his movement, and his stress levels upticked even more at the half-conscious thought of not being able to escape or protect himself further.

He pulled violently at the restraints, panicked and unable to process much more than his primary reaction to being held down. “Connor! Hey, kid, calm down, you’re okay. You’re okay, it’s just to keep you safe, okay?” That was Hank’s voice again. He trusted Hank. He settled slightly, rapidly losing ground in his battle for consciousness.

Then there were hands in the wound, tripping all of his tactile sensors and warning sensors, and some kind of solution wash that completely overwhelmed all available sensors embedded locally, and he completely faded out once more.

The light blazed even through his closed eyes. A jolt to his side made him snap them open, and he could only make out the rough shape of Hank still over him, still holding his head and muttering soothing nonsense phrases and shooting worried glances at the repair work being done to his side. He went to grab for Hank’s hand or sleeve, but his wrist pulled taut and he was suddenly reminded of the cuffs restraining him. Hank’s gaze immediately met his. “You awake again? They’re almost done, just hold on, son.”

It felt...it felt  _ horrible _ . His entire side was a numbing, excruciating mess of pain and whatever they were doing just made it burn hotter and whiter. Connor had seen many a gory crime scene but the thought of them digging around and fixing parts had him severely lightheaded ( _ an automatic emotion-driven response to further physical trauma _ , his processing supplied, and he merely grimaced and did his best to not pass out again). “They’ve fixed the lines, it’s just stitches now...you’re doing so good, Connor, you know that? Almost done.” The press of a stapler against his skin was a cold shock and he flinched, jostling the restraints. He whined high in the back of his throat, eyes half-closed and hands pulling at the edge of the table once more. “Yeah, it sucks, huh. Just hold on a little more, okay?”

“Hh,  _ please _ -” The sutures entering his skin were minor pricks of an uncomfortable sensation compared to the pain of his side, but more pain, even small amounts, prompted tears of stress and frustration. He couldn’t cringe away, couldn’t move without pulling at the restraints, and every shift of the pressure around his wrists and ankles prompted another spike of panic.

Hank, patient as ever, went back to carding one hand through Connor’s hair. “I know, kid, I’m here. I know.” The hand in his hair faltered as something else caught Hank’s attention. More talking washed over him, threading loosely through his audio processors and succumbing to the ever-present roar of static. The prick of the staples faded and the feeling of it against his skin vanished, and he let out the last of the air pooling in his chest.

With nothing new to focus on, he felt stasis pressing at the edges of his awareness again. There was something soft being wrapped tightly around his middle, and the pressure eased the tides of pain slightly. He was, frankly, sick of passing out but now that the procedure seemed to be over, exhaustion rolled over him relentlessly.

“You can rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up, son.”

That was all the permission he needed, and he knew nothing else.

**Author's Note:**

> written for a poor anon on tumblr who requested it literally like ten months ago OOPS


End file.
